


the calligraphy of our love

by erlkoenig



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, and Tender Aziraphale, featuring bookshop snake Crowley, nonsensical holiday fluff as told through the eyes of a random outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: “Crowley,” he says, and there’s a warm sort of tenderness to that one word that makes her smile. She ducks down an aisle, loses herself in just browsing the books. She forgets about the other two, runs her fingers over the aged spines of the well-loved books on display, and they seem to forget about her, too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 72
Collections: Cat’s Holiday Exchange 2019





	the calligraphy of our love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izilen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izilen/gifts).



> For my dear friend Izilen, Happy Holidays! I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I really loved both ideas of an outsider's POV of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, and I adore bookshop snake Crowley, so I combined them both. 
> 
> Title taken from 满足 (Satisfied) as performed by Xiao Zhan.

The bookshop holds a coveted corner spot in Soho, neither hidden nor tucked away, and yet it is entirely possible to pass by the door every day, every week, every year and somehow never seem to notice it. 

If the man in the dark glasses had not nearly opened the door right in her face, she would have been just another lost customer with her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets wandering by, but now that she’s seen it, she wonders how she could have missed the bookshop. 

The man regards her for just a moment, like he might apologize for almost braining her with one of the heavy wooden doors, but settles for a shrug, steps inside the shop and holds the door open behind him just long enough for her to slip inside behind him. 

A man with pale blond curls and a charmingly dated waistcoat pokes his head around the corner of one of the tall bookshelves, looks at her while looking past her somehow. “Sorry,” he starts, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “I’m afraid we’re not—“

“Door was unlocked, angel.” The man with the sunglasses says, and she turns her head, like she shouldn’t be witness to such casual affection. “Unlocked door, open for business.”

She nearly apologizes herself, nearly offers to come back later, but the other man — the owner, perhaps, presumably — hardly seems to notice her now.

“Crowley,” he says, and there’s a warm sort of tenderness to that one word that makes her smile. She ducks down an aisle, loses herself in just browsing the books. She forgets about the other two, runs her fingers over the aged spines of the well-loved books on display, and they seem to forget about her, too.

Time gets away from her and she leaves without buying anything, turns to give the owner a wave and despite her lack of purchases, he gives a half-wave and a soft smile in return, before turning back to Crowley. 

She makes a mental note to come back when she has more time. 

Weeks pass before she remembers, hears a familiar jingle of the door bell as holiday shoppers file in and out of the bookshop — A.Z. Fell and Co, reads the brass lettered sign. She had nowhere to be this morning, so despite the small crowd inside, she heads inside. 

There’s something comforting about the shop already, the yellowed lighting, the smell of old pages and settled dust, tea and frankincense incense, though she doubts Mr Fell would allow anything that burns anywhere near his books. 

She’s thumbing through a weathered copy of Baudelaire’s  _ Les Fleur du Mal _ in the original French — even though she cannot read more than a couple of words of it — when she hears the excited whisper. 

“Mum!” 

There’s a young boy reaching blindly for his mother’s coat sleeve, just out of reach, but his attention is fixed wholly on something on a little table next to the window.

“Mum, look!”

The boy’s mother has that harried  _ shopping for a gift for someone who is impossible to shop for  _ sort of look writ across her face, and she barely turns towards her son as her eyes scan desperately for some title to jump out at her. “What is it, James?”

“There’s a snake!”

“That’s lovely darling.”

Baudelaire forgotten, she steps carefully past the mother and follows where the boy is pointing.

There is, indeed, a  _ snake. _ At first she thinks it might be some sort of paperweight, perhaps, her mind refusing to believe that there is a  _ snake  _ in a  _ bookshop _ . A cat, perhaps, but a snake? Ridiculous. 

The snake lifts its head, tongue flicking out at the air as if saying,  _ oh dear, I am quite real,  _ before resting its head gently on its coils again. 

_ Oh. _

The boy reaches out as if to touch it, and while she doesn’t think the snake is venomous, “Best leave it alone,” she says quickly. The boy withdraws his hand a moment, then in perfect childlike defiance, reaches out again, quick, and pokes the snake’s nose. Or rather, what she assumed would be its nose. 

_ Snake anatomy, I wonder if this place has a book on snakes. He must. _

The snake, to its credit, doesn’t strike at the boy, but if ever a snake could look offended, somehow it manages exactly that. 

Bored already, the boy wanders off to find his mum.

“Are you supposed to be here?” She asks in a whisper, immediately feels silly for talking to a snake and yet that offended air about the thing lingers. “Right, sorry.”

The snake is curled next to a copy of  _ Paradise Lost  _ and there’s something so absurdly funny about it that she — carefully, carefully, the snake has been disturbed enough — picks it up. She turns it over a couple times, considering, but if ever there was a sign that she should read something, it’s an out of place snake in a bookshop. 

Baudelaire will have to wait for next time. She tucks the book under her arm, considers thanking the snake for the recommendation but decides that’s enough absurdity for one morning. 

She falls into the queue, still idly browsing as best she can when she hears the boy, James, above the quiet murmur of the shop.

“Hey mister!” 

Mr Fell, or the man she assumes is Mr Fell, looks up from where he appeared to be arguing with a customer —  _ I’m sorry that one is  _ not  _ for sale _ — and when he spots the owner of the voice it’s clear that the man has very little idea of what exactly to do with children.

“Yes?”

“Is that snake yours?”

The shop goes quiet, or rather more quiet than before, and several heads turn in the direction of where the boy is pointing. The snake, however, is completely unperturbed by the attention, continuing to sun himself with what little warmth he can get from his window-table perch. 

“Oh, that’s just Crowley.”

She can’t help but frown, the name sounds familiar and not just because of that one occultist. The boy’s mother has finally caught up to the conversation and is loudly lecturing the man about how dangerous snakes are, how could he be so careless to allow such a creature around customers, and that she should really get the building inspector to have a look at this place. 

Mr Fell, however, doesn’t seem to hear her. “Crowley doesn’t belong to anyone but himself,” he says, answering the boy, who nods in return as though it all makes perfect sense. 

The mother takes him firmly by the hand and leads him out of the shop, leaving her books on the counter. Mr Fell does not seem terribly upset to see her go. The other customers pick right back up with their shopping, as though nothing happened at all.

_ Crowley _ , she remembers now, the man with the dark glasses who nearly hit her in the face with the door.  _ He named the snake after his partner? _

She’s still musing about it as she leaves the store with her books — books? She looks down at her hands as she stands just outside the doors to the shop. A handwritten receipt is sticking out from between the pages of Baudelaire. 

She doesn’t remember picking it up again, but it’s there on the slip and there in her hands. It finds a place on her coffee table, a reminder to try to pick back up with French. 

Milton is more interesting than she had thought, and her cocoa is quickly forgotten on the table as she reads, bundled under blankets, tucked in the corner of her sofa. It’s a pleasant way to spend the holidays, for all the forgotten tea and cocoa.

It’s after Christmas when she makes her way back to the bookshop. Out of sight, out of mind, but then she’s stopping in front of those now familiar wooden doors and decides to pop in, just for a bit. 

The post-holiday quiet is refreshing, and the only other signs of life in the shop is the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the murmur of low voices between the shelves. 

“Let me tempt you with a late lunch?”

“Crowley, it’s after three.” 

“I did say late. Fine, early dinner? It’s about this time that you usually lock up anyways.”

There’s a quiet huff, and she’s only pretending to browse -- though she  _ is _ keeping an eye out for the snake Crowley, not to be confused with the person Crowley. She moves a little closer to where she thinks the voices are coming from, staying quiet as she stares at the rows of books. She’s in the history section, she thinks, though the books do not seem to be organized in any way that makes sense to her. There’s a book written in Greek shelved next to an abridged history of Persia. 

“I have a customer, Crowley.”

“ _ Angel. _ ” The word comes out as a whine, and there’s fondness in the answering sigh. It’s difficult to tell if the two of them, this Crowley and Mr Fell, are long-time partners or trying to navigate the murky waters of newly dating. 

She grins, she can’t help it. There is no mistaking that tone, that longing that creeps into your voice when you’ve found your Person and all you want is to spend a little more time with them. When she steps around the corner of the bookshelf she sees them then, Crowley with those dark sunglasses, and Mr Fell with his charming tweed vest. Crowley is holding both of Mr Fell’s hands so gently, like he’s waiting for the other to pull away even as his thumb brushes slowly over the backs of Mr Fell’s knuckles. 

She’d meant to look for something educational, a French primer perhaps, but now, “I was just leaving, actually.”

Mr Fell takes a step back as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, but Crowley catches his fingers, holds him from springing away completely. 

“Hear that, angel? She’s on her way out.”

“You are a menace.” Mr Fell says softly, fixing Crowley with a level look even as he pulls his keys out of his pocket.

“And yet I am less of a menace to your customers than you are, fancy that.”

She coughs, stifling a laugh, and Mr Fell is suddenly reminded that she is, indeed, still in the shop. He walks her to the door, bids her a farewell and a distracted sort of  _ come back soon.  _

“You have a cute snake by the way.”

Mr Fell blinks at her, startled. 

“Last time I was here it was sunning itself next to that window.” She points, and he glances over quickly before turning back to stare at her oddly. “You said his name was Crowley. ‘Spose he’s not  _ your _ snake, I guess, as you did say he belongs to no one but himself.”

Person-Crowley is hovering, just far enough away to not be intrusive, but judging by the smirk pulling up the corner of his lip, close enough to hear about Snake-Crowley. 

She shrugs when he doesn’t answer. “He’s a cute snake. Have a pleasant early dinner, Mr Fell.” 

“Ah, thank you?” It comes out as a question, a hint of the sort of anxious awkwardness when you’re  _ pretty sure _ someone is being genuinely polite, but also sure they’re having a laugh at the same time. She turns, hears the creak of the hinges and the soft jingle of the bell as Mr Fell locks up behind her.

And, muffled, “did you hear that Crowley, you’re a cute snake.”

“I am  _ not-- _ ”

The gently bickering voices retreat further into the shop until she cannot hear them anymore. 


End file.
